


The Kill Order

by Kartoffelwald



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Assassin AU, Assassin!Derek, Dead Sheriff Stilinski, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, John's not a sheriff here but a detective, M/M, Misunderstandings, Scott is an awesome friend, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, So is Allison, computerwhiz!Stiles, hacker!Stiles, it starts with a one-night stand, it's like Mr & Mrs Smith but not really, keeping secrets, killer!Derek, stiles does part time work while trying to take down the baddies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-09 23:58:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4369310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kartoffelwald/pseuds/Kartoffelwald
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts with an amazing one-night stand.</p>
<p>Derek kills people if he gets paid enough. Stiles teaches college students and sometimes does research work for Jackson's law firm.<br/>Oh, he also hacks Alpha Company's system on a regular basis to expose their illegal dealings (and he occasionally plays Robin Hood on them.)<br/>Deucalion tracks him down and places a bounty of five million dollars on his head, dead or alive. It gets every killer hounding for Stiles's ass. Derek is also after his ass but literally, because /duh/ he fell for the idiot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Kill Order - Part 1.1

**Author's Note:**

> Uh, so first work for Teen Wolf.  
> How do I get people to read this stuff oAo? Cos I would totally appreciate people reading this stuff.  
> (Also I've been working on this for months because I write about 300 words a day and I don't do it everyday. *laughcry*) 
> 
> This is a two-part thing (each part chopped into shorter pieces) and I haven't started on the second part, because I'm shit.
> 
> WARNING: Multiple inaccuracies over a lot of things
> 
> IMPORTANT WARNING: Poorly written sex, because I don't usually write them. Skipping the sex part is an option. *thumbs up*

He wonders if he had chosen to ignore the envelope he received five days ago, would Derek still be pointing the gun at his head right now. It’d be a messy death, he knows. He’d seen enough from his father’s cases. God, that seemed like a lifetime ago.

When he was twelve and going through his burn-the-world phase, Stiles made a list of how he’s probably going to end up dying. He’s pretty sure getting his brains blown up was in his list, but he’s also positive that it wasn’t in his top ten and he surely didn’t expect anyone he knows to be the person pulling the trigger. He’d always thought that he’d be a cop like his Dad, and somewhere along the way, perhaps an encounter gone awry, he’d have guys in Ski masks successfully making a jam out of his brain matters.

In retrospect, Stiles should have known at least one of his less desirable qualities (read: insatiable curiosity, nonexistent brain-to-mouth filter, incapacity to think his plans through, and inability to follow orders without question—basically all the things that makes Stiles _Stiles_ ) would end up killing him someday.

Alright. That’s not completely true. He’s known that since he was nine and his parents had given him the same lecture thrice in just a week. _“No, Stiles, Mr. McMillian is definitely not a werewolf no matter what inconclusive evidence you and your partner in crime had garnered.”_ And by the time he was seventeen all his doubts have been erased. He was almost one-hundred percent sure he was going to piss off some trigger happy bastard and then BAM! RIP Stiles. And that was even the best scenario, a quick painless death. With his track record, he’d be extremely fortunate not to have all his bones broken or his guts still intact when they lower the casket six feet under, because with his kind of luck, he’s probably going to piss off some psycho-sadist who’d break at least one hundred of his bones before drowning him or setting him on fire. In short, Extremely. Painful. Death.

(It just kinda sucks that it ends up being the combination of all those qualities that does him in the end. It’s not a very comforting thought that all this time he’s been a ticking time bomb.)

But then again he was the master of ignoring the problem until it goes away—not that the problem actually disappears into thin air magically. No siree, what really happens is that it just adds to the ever growing pile of shit-Stiles-refuses-to-acknowledge-cos-hes-really-a-twenty-something-year-old-man-child. And then it festers like an old untreated wound, eating him up from the inside out.

Well, he couldn’t say that he’s ever imagined himself growing old, getting married, having kids, white picket fence house with a dog whose puppy eyes could rival his best friend’s. That sort of thing was for Scott and Allison and their one-in-a-million love and the little Scott Jr. currently living inside of Allison’s womb. (And it’s such a shame, Stiles was hoping to win the Bestest Most Awesomest Uncle in Existence Award. He even has a step-by-step plan prepared for when the little imp comes. He’s also proud to say not everything on the list came from the internet He’s pretty sure half of the things listed there came from his years of babysitting a couple of dozen hell spawns.)

He even thought he was lucky to be able to reach past his thirty’s. He attracts trouble well-enough to warrant some sort of freak accident as a cause of death if he’s not to piss off some psycho. Maybe a white grand piano would drop from the sky right where he was passing through. Too cliché. Maybe he’d break his neck in the library trying to reach a book from the top shelf and consequently get trapped in there as a ghost. Hey, if could spend his eternity in a library with nothing to do but devour pages after pages of books older than the building itself, why not? Plus, it’s not as cliché but still just as absurd as the falling piano.

Though he never expected to have the ordinary, glaringly simple life (or death, for that matter) he also never expected to meet his end facing the barrel of the gun held by the guy he’d been fucking with on-and-off for the last nine and a half months.

“Oh, my God! You have got to be shitting me right now. Seriously, dude?! I just had your cock in my mouth less than twelve hours ago.”

Trust him to have this shitty luck. And it’s not even that he was staring off the barrel of the gun that kills (get it?) him at that moment. He wished it was just fucking that happened the past ten months. Okay, so maybe it was just fucking the first three months, but damn, there was the bowling alley, the mildly authentic French restaurant, weekends spent at each other’s places—For Christ’s sake! Even Lydia, the Goddess herself, had met this guy. He’s pretty damn sure the silent agreement of ‘no strings attached’ never made it past the first month. After all, they both started with a ‘one time only’ only thing, then a ‘three times fuck does not a relationship make’ and the official decision for a ‘casual affair’ never made it through the first twelve hours.

So, basically, this was betrayal of the deepest darkest hell. His impending death—the knowledge that his last words to Scott was a harsh, “Fuck off, man!”, that Jackson would never have to repay that favor he owes, that he’d never ever see Scotty Jr. grow up and find his own lady (or dude) love, and a lot more things he’d be missing—didn’t hurt quite as much as the fact that Derek has been humoring him the whole time.

In his defense, ten months was enough—more than enough, in fact—time to get invested.

 


	2. The Kill Order - Part 1.2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> less boring stuff happens.

It’s a little after nine and Stiles was still in the computer laboratory checking over his students’ work. If he could live-off of the salary he gets from Jackson’s firm alone, he would totally ditch this teaching gig. But the work there was erratic and unstable for him, especially since he’s only a part-time employee and Danny, that goddamn talented shit, won’t be giving up his job anytime soon. Disregarding the fact that he’s been Jackson’s best friend for just as long Stiles and Scott have been brothers and that even if he screws up big time, Jackson still won’t kick him to the curb, Danny was just too good to actually make mistakes.

Jackson’s complete and utter trust in his best friend was also not unwarranted. That means an awful lot considering Jackson Whittemore has issues the size of Russia. His general scumbaggery might have dwindled down since high school after finding out the story behind his real parents, he’s still an over-entitled narcissistic white boy Stiles can’t believe he considers friend, if only for their mutual penchant for relatively offensive humor.

So, basically, the point is Stiles is stuck with unfulfilling jobs until he makes a name for himself or until some big shot company finally takes notice of his qualifications and gives him a rags-to-riches sob story. And the chances of that happening are slim to none, even if he had been Danny Mahealani’s protégé of sorts.

The room was dark except from the light from the computers. He’d gone over the half of his class’s programs. His eyesight, even with his glasses on, was in serious need of downtime. He could barely make-out the letters and the screen light was also starting to annoy him. Spending another Friday night hunched over another set of exercises to check was not how he imagined life after getting his degree.

“Alright! That is it. I am going to get so drunk tonight and I’m going to find myself a man and we’re gonna have hot drunk sex on the back of his car and tomorrow will be reserve only for my bed. My expensive mattress, imported blankets, and therapeutic pillows—”

“Yeah, you do that. Do you want me to drop you off a club?” Another man says from the doorway. Despite his brain registering the familiarity of the voice, Stiles ends up flailing and falling backwards from his seat, inadvertently scattering his paper works all over the floor.

“Oh, my God! Scott, you shit!” Stiles says from the floor, elbows supporting most of his weight but legs still tangled in the chair. Scott replies with a series of uncontrolled laughter.

“Oh, man, that never gets old.”

“Ha. Ha. Now why are you even here? Shouldn’t you be, like, I don’t know, waiting on Allison, fetching whatever monstrosity my future niece or nephew is demanding? Or something.” Stiles tries to push himself from his awkward position while simultaneously clawing the sheets around him together. Scott moves to help him, dragging him by the arm to steady his footing.

Twenty-five year old Scott McCall was a far cry from sixteen year old Scott McCall. Through hard work, lacrosse, and sheer determination, his scrawny body had grown and developed into an entirely drool-worthy muscular shape. Stiles may not have the hots for his practically-brother but even with his terrible eyesight, he’s not oblivious to the stares and longing looks Scott gets whenever and wherever, and he himself admits how attractive his friend has grown. There’s a proud Mama feeling buried somewhere there. After all, he’d been there cheering, making diet plans, work out plans, even wooing plans for Allison long before Scott birthed those abs.

All in all Scott was gorgeous and his wife is just as gorgeous. You would’ve have thought that hanging around those people would at least rub a little bit of attractiveness to you. Sadly, that’s not how the world works. Stiles knew this from experience. It’s not even that Stiles was ugly. A fair amount of people found him attractive, but it was in a whole different spectrum of attractive. It was that ‘delicate’ attractiveness that he has on going. It wasn’t his fault he couldn’t grow a beard to save his life or that there seems to be a limit to the volume of muscles he could grow. His frame remained svelte, long lanky legs that he never mastered using. He was still an inch or two taller than Scott, but Scott was broader and heavier.

“Yeah, Allison and I decided to check on you since you haven’t been answering your phone. She figured you’d be here and she also said you shouldn’t be here. It’s a Friday, man.”

“Scott, if this is about my Mom’s… you know… I’m fine. I’m perfectly fine,” Stiles says as he dumps the worksheets inside his bag, “Besides, you heard me-” he turns to Scott grinning “- I am gonna get myself laid tonight.”

Five hours later Stiles found himself grinding against a mountain of man. Oh, he knows he had a little too much to drink, but he’s sober enough to know he wants this man, preferably in a bed. But if that’s impossible, he’d even take him in his car. It’s going to be a bitch to clean out in the morning, but he’s also too far gone to think that far ahead. He’d take mountain man anyway he could get, just as long as they weren’t stooping so low as to use one of the restroom stalls. Stiles may not have that high of a standard, but semi-public restroom fuck was too low even for him.

They might have been talking earlier. Or maybe that was another guy. No, he’s pretty sure he’s only been with this person tonight. It doesn’t matter really. They might have been talking earlier, but he’s feeling too buzzed to recall anything substantial about him. He can’t even remember his name. He’s pretty sure it started with a ‘D.’ Dennis? Dexter? Oh, who cares? Stiles would even settle for calling him ‘Dick’ right now, ‘cause he’s sure Darren’s(?) cock deserved a separate name judging from the size of that bulge he’s plastering himself against.

“You feel good.” Nameless guy rumbles just behind his ears, tracing his neck with messy open-mouthed kisses. The man’s right hand was gripping his waist while his left was holding Stiles ass and occasionally letting his fingers run through the smaller man’s cleft in slow sensuous rubs.

Stiles lets out series of whimpers comprised mostly of ‘oh my god’s and ‘fuck, fuck, fuck’s. The man was broad enough that Stiles couldn’t fully engulf him with his arms. He raked his nails over his back, pausing for a millisecond to question who the fuck still wears leather jackets in this age. But as teeth nibbled on the space between his throat and left clavicle, all inquisitive thought flew out the window to be replaced by another series of moans and desperate mewls. He sounded like a bitch in heat. In any other context, he would have chided himself for being this shameless, but not right now when his pants are too tight that any sort of movement hurt his oversensitive member and when he’s torn between giving the guy hickeys and rubbing himself against his hips.

Nameless guy gives a throaty chuckle before grabbing him firmly by the thighs and hoisting him up and deliberately making Stiles wrap them around his waist. “I like them. They’re quite comfortable, if you didn’t know,” the guy adds.

It took a moment for Stiles to wrap his brain around the statement, overcome with haze and desire, until he remembered his mouth filter has never worked before and there’s no reason for it to suddenly work now. Stiles groans and was about to retort when ‘D’ swiftly thrust against his own body. He throws his head back, gasping and moaning. Then all he could think of was that there were currently too many layers of cloth separating him and his god right now.

They kept on rocking their bodies—sometimes synchronized but mostly not any better than dry humping between two awkward teenagers. But the sensation, small currents of electricity shocking Stiles’s insides, was driving him mad. He grips the other man’s shirt as he tipped his head for their mouths to meet. It doesn’t last long and nameless guy was nipping at his jaws, claiming his neck. Stiles could feel the other man's stubble against his skin and he’s not counting on not having burns there the next day. Open-mouthed kisses trailed against his skin, and he reaches the juncture between Stiles’s neck and shoulder. He kissed and sucked, eliciting a louder moan from the smaller man. Then, he bit down hard.

Stiles had never thought of himself as a masochist. But he wouldn’t deny the reason he came in his pants like fourteen year old virgin was the sting from the bite. It wasn’t deep enough to cut the skin, but without his shirt, it might have. And Stiles probably wouldn’t have minded either.

Seconds later, he felt the other man falter a bit, loosening his hold a bit, but not enough to drop Stiles. (Thank god for small mercies, Stiles thought.) Stiles buries his head in the man’s collar, playfully nipping at the patches of exposed skin in the area.

“Hotel. Ten minutes on car.” Stiles murmurs in between licks.

“No.”

Stiles abruptly stops what he’s doing. This is the part where he realizes they’re in an abandoned alley behind the club. There was absolutely no one else there but them. Years of lecture from his father and stolen police reports makes its way to Stiles’s forefront. Oh, god, he wanted to hook up with a killer. C’mon, leather jackets? Perfect for avoiding blood stains. Serial killer? No recent reports so, probably not. Stiles was just an unlucky fellow. Wrong place. Wrong time. Attracting the wrong people. Always.

His brain was running a mile a minute and instinctively he tries to push the man away. But before he could even unlock his legs from the man, a hand makes its way to the back of his head guiding him back to the man’s shoulder as Mr. I-should-probably-know-your-name nibbles at his ear.

“My place. Next block over,” he says, “five minutes on foot. We could cut it to three if we wanted.” The grin he had, Stiles could only describe as wolfish. “Besides, we’ve both had too much to drink.”

Relief clouds over Stiles and they disentangle themselves from each other.

They must have made out a thousand times before they reached a fancy looking apartment complex over twenty floors high. It still took them over five minutes.

His companion for the night hit the button for the twenty-seventh.

“I’m probably too drunk to articulate shit right now, but oh my god, dude, for real? What were you doing in th—” Stiles never got to finish because mystery guy, who still had his arm around Stiles’s waist, had partially lifted his shirt to caress the skin just above his hips “—hng…”

The guy opens his apartment with a key card. The door opens with a tiny ding. Stiles didn’t have the chance to see the place with the dim light the other guy had opted with. As soon as they stepped inside the threshold, Stiles was held against the wall, his wrists pinned on his sides simultaneously.

There was the harsh press of lips against his and then a small lick, urging him to open up. He relented and together they explored each other’s crevices. He felt sharp canines and his mind wonders back to the bite from earlier. He moans still feeling the bruising assault of those teeth on his skin. He nips the man’s lower lips. In turn, the hands restricting his wrists are moved to his hips, directly touching his skin and thumbs, rubbing small circles above the hips. His knees buckle and if it weren’t for the man’s support, Stiles would have slid down the floor. A shiver makes its way down Stiles’s navel, a pulling sensation that makes his cock stir and gradually tenting his jeans.

“Derek. My name’s Derek,” the guy—Derek, ha! He knew it was a ‘D’—says as he drops down to his knees, “I want you to scream my name when you come.” He made fast work of Stiles’s zipper and belt.

Derek. Derek. Derek. Dederik. Theodoric. A name of German origin. Stiles thought it was befitting. Ruler of the people. Derek seems like someone who liked to take charge. O _bviously_. He idly wonders if he’d ever forget that name, in a week, in a month, because this wasn’t the first time he’s been over a stranger’s place for a fuck and he can’t remember most of their names by now. He can’t even remember their faces.

Stiles was cursing and thanking a thousand saints and gods when finally, _finally_ , Derek successfully pulls his underwear down, freeing his aching member. Derek trails kisses on the inside of his thighs, leaving him a blabbering mess. He hoped the other man didn’t mind his sudden latching onto his dark hair.

Only Derek’s grip on his thigh was keeping him upright. When Derek displaced one to hold his member close to his lips and proceeded to pepper it with kisses, Stiles throws his head back and begs, “Oh god, oh god, oh god, please…”

Just as swiftly, Derek stands, and Stiles, delirious with lust, doesn’t notice when his body readily held onto the other man when he was hoisted up by the back his thighs.

“Fuck,” he cries, dragging out the syllable, “Too many clothes.” Without a thought, he rocks himself against the large body, clinging desperately to Derek’s name.

Derek doesn’t say anything. Stiles was getting used to his grunts of pleasure instead; finding it surprisingly hot. Derek wasted no breathe. Rather, he was focused on provoking reactions from Stiles; his ears, greedily devouring those moans and pants.

But in response, he slips his hands inside of Stiles’s shirt to rake over the skin of Stiles’s back while simultaneously sucking on the bruise from the bite. The latter was really killing Stiles.

“Derek, Derek, Jesus fucking Christ, Derek—” A low pleased rumble from Derek’s chest alerted Stiles that his pitiful, mindless mumbling pleased the man.

He was dropped none too gently on the bed and Stiles thought it was night of discoveries seeing that all of Derek’s manhandling was making him hotter. He didn’t even think it was possible to feel more turned on than this.

His pants were lost somewhere in the hallway and he was trying to get his shirt off of him, but his hands were shaking and the buttons weren’t cooperating. He didn’t even notice Derek take a bottle of lube and condoms from the nightstand before large hands cover his own clumsy fingers. He lifted his head and Derek crushed his lips against his, taking over the duty of getting him naked.

They were both naked in the center of the bed several minutes later. Stiles was on his back with Derek hovering over him, pinning his hands on the side of his head and sucking one of his hard nubs. Stiles could feel the taut muscles above him, could feel Derek’s hardness brush against his own skin.

“Derek, please,” Stiles whimpers. He didn’t want himself to sound so needy, but Derek was driving him mad. He wants his next release to be when Derek is moving inside of him, but at the rate Derek’s tongue and hands were going, Stiles didn’t think he’d last long.

“Turn over,” Derek commands, placing his hands on the other man’s sides. He guides Stiles’s ass up softly pushing the man’s upper body down the sheets, then tracing his forefinger down Stiles’s spine dragging it languidly making Stiles shiver. “I’ll stop if you tell me to, understand?”

Derek teases him with his tongue, and he thrashes, squirms, and shamelessly moans under the man. Then a digit slides into him easily. Then two. Then three. A moment later Derek brushes against his prostate and he loses it.

“Yes, _yes,_ yes, oh god, Derek, _Derek_ , I need more.”

Derek hums in approval. “Hold on to the headboard. Keep them there until I tell you, okay?”

Stiles nods and quickly complies. He’s barely composed himself when Derek places a hand on his hip, guiding his aching member towards Stiles’s hole. Derek sheathes himself inside of him in one swift movement making him jerk forward at the sudden intrusion.

“So tight and hot for me,” Derek grunts as he nips at Stiles’s back. The sensation of being filled, the ache combined with the pleasure, was nothing new to Stiles. But Derek made him feel so full that every slow rock the man does sends jolts of lightning straight to Stiles’s own weeping cock. His body moves on its own accord, moving forwards and back to impale himself on Derek and Derek wasted no time thrusting back. It wasn’t difficult finding their rhythm: fast, hard, and purely ran on instinct.

“Oh god, yes! Faster, Derek. _Derek_. Yes, yes, _there._ Harder. Please, please, please.” The onslaught his cries only encouraged his partner.

Derek licks a long stripe at the back of his ears before gently biting at his ears.

“You like this don’t you? On your hands and knees, being filled, getting pumped by my dick.”

“Yes, yes, god yes. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

Stiles grips the headboard so hard he thinks he’d be leaving crescent marks on it. His toes curl at the feeling of Derek’s fingers playing with his nipples and teeth, leaving a bruised trail on his back. He starts to scream Derek’s name over and over and over, and Derek, sensing his near completion, fists his erection, pumping it.

His release coats Derek’s hand and the man thrusts a few more times before he too was coming.

Derek pulls out and Stiles plants himself face down on the pillow, nails still digging into the headboard. Stiles was still trying to catch his breath when he feels the weight of the bed shift as Derek moved to the adjoining bathroom. A minute later, Derek was gently moving his hands away from the headboard and turning him on his back.

“You know, when I told you to keep them there, I didn’t mean this,” Derek says playfully as he wipes Stiles’s stomach and thighs clean with the wet towel.

“Shut up. But hey, amazing fuck, dude.”

“Don’t call me ‘dude.’ I have a name.” Derek gets up to throw the towel on the hamper.

“Whatever, _dude_.” Stiles retorts, dropping his feet on the side of the bed. Derek catches him before he falls to the floor. “Well, shit. This is why I shouldn’t wait long before getting laid again.”

“Does it hurt?” The worry he sees in Derek’s eyes were baffling. Is he really worried for him? Stiles, while he didn’t make a habit of sleeping around, knew unwritten rules of the game. Nah, he’s probably worried Stiles wouldn’t be able to leave immediately.

“No, you were awesome. Don’t worry. Just let me rest a bit, I’ll be out of your hair in no time,” Stiles reassures him. Derek snorts and his eyebrows (oh god, why hasn’t he noticed them before?) does this tilting that seems to spell out, ‘Unbelievable.’ He sits him back down on the bed.

“Stay the night, I’ll cook us breakfast.” Stiles looks at him incredulously. Then he looked at his hands and counted his fingers. “Well, I’m definitely not dreaming—” Derek did his weird eyebrow thing again “—but seriously? Amazing sex and you’re offering me free breakfast. When did I get this lucky? Oh my god, is this Fate’s telling me I’m about to be screwed over ten times worse. Oh my god, what if I’m really dying and the universe is compensating for my shitty life. But I’m too young to die—” Stiles was sure he had more to say, but he certainly was okay with Derek’s crushing his lips against his while slyly maneuvering them in the middle of the bed. By the time Stiles got his bearings, Derek has his head tucked under his chin and an arm wrapped securely around him. Too tired to make sense of the matter, Stiles slowly found himself drifting to sleep.

The thing is that Stiles has never been able to sleep with another person in the same bed ever since his mother died when he was eleven.

Of course, like every other kid, Stiles made it a habit to slip in-between his parents’ bed in the dead of the night. In the morning, he’d find himself cuddled in his mother’s arms with his father’s arms, enclosing them in a gentle hug. When he met Scott and had his friend stay over during one of the rougher nights when Scott’s mother and father were sorting their separation, they shared his bed, eager at the thought that it was what brothers did.

But after Claudia, Stiles was unable to stand another person’s touch on him while sleeping. Even the nights following directly after John found his son alone in the hallway—his wife, already long gone— Stiles couldn’t sleep with his Dad in the same bed, tired as he might be from all his crying.

No one knew of this. No one except Scott that is, because Scott, no matter what other people said, wasn’t stupid. Stiles tried to hide it at first. There was no reason for his father to notice anyway. They didn’t a share a bed, or a sleeping schedule for that matter. But Scott’s staying over and his spending the night at Scott’s wasn’t a rare occurrence and evidently Scott caught on. One night, Scott had another mattress prepared on the floor of his room during their scheduled sleepover. They didn’t speak about it. Scott didn’t ask for an explanation. He simply accepted it and wrote it down as another one of his best friend’s (seemingly) harmless oddities. So, when it was Stiles’s turn to host their night out, it wasn’t a surprise that a mattress was laid on the floor.

 


	3. The Kill Order - Part 1.3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek kills people. Derek is intrigued by Stiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3/4 of Part 1 :D  
> Originally I was going to post this and a longer chapter this weekend, but opted to to post this one now and the next one on the weekend.  
> Eternally grateful for the positive feed backs!

Stiles wakes to three realization a) he’s naked and he aches in all the right places which means he had a pretty amazing night b) he wasn’t in his bed because his mattress wasn’t as soft as this and lastly c) an arm was wrapped loosely around his waist and he could feel the heat of someone’s front pressed against his back and that was the most alarming thing. Stiles never sleeps with someone. Well, of course, he sleeps with them if ‘sleep’ is a euphemism for ‘fucking’, but Stiles never _sleeps,_ in the most basic meaning of the word, with anyone.

When he had girlfriends or boyfriends, he never tried to stay the night. If he couldn’t, he endured: he’ll nap for half an hour before his body reacts to the other body on the bed and then he’ll be awake for hours, fall into a light slumber then the painful cycle repeats. (And now he wonders if his inability to cuddle in his sleep was somehow to blame for his failed relationships. He wonders if he had been honest about this, could he have saved his relationship with Malia. Because a year and five months was the longest he’d ever had and he honestly thought Malia could have been _it_.)

Fortunately, the guy—Derek, as he remembers screaming the name the night before—was a heavy sleeper, and despite ending up in different sections of the floor (or the hallway), he managed to recover all his clothing. Stiles vaguely recover being promised breakfast, but noticing that it was half past eight in the morning, he knew he had to leave soon if he wanted to make it to the weekly Saturday lunch gathering Scott and Allison has going for their group.

He takes a pen from his pants and rummages the room for anything to write on. He settles for a tissue paper from the bathroom and quickly scribbles a note. He doesn’t write his number, because he knows how it goes, but thanks the guy instead. There was a chance for it to get lost and for some reason, Derek’s not getting his note didn’t sit right with him even if he didn’t think they’d ever meet again. So, being Stiles, he takes the slip and tangles it carefully in Derek’s black underwear. The contrast of white against the black would immediately draw attention, Stiles thinks. And it wasn’t completely weird considering he’d already slept with the guy.

+

“Derek, I’m telling you, I’ve searched the whole city for this ‘Stiles’ guy and there’s nothing. Nada. Zilch. And get your head in the game. I don’t want you to die.”

“Isaac, I know what I’m doing. I’ve done this longer than you’ve been operating,” Derek says back as quietly as he can on the intercom, hoping that the music from the banquet wasn’t loud enough to ‘cause a problem, “And I really need to find Stiles.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll run another check. Can you at least admit that the reason you’re so gung-ho on this Stiles is because he’s hot and a pretty good lay and you’d want to bang him again and not because of the shitty lie that he slipped out of your arm without you waking? God, that even sounds cheesier than I thought.”

“Isaac,” Derek hissed. Isaac was right though and Derek just didn’t want to admit it. It’s been two weeks since the night he spent with Stiles. In the morning he found the note and seriously, can the guy get even more _interesting_.

“Just admit it, bro,” Isaac half chuckles into his mic.

A small crackle and then another party was connected to their conversation, “Erica’s done. Target coming down hurriedly from the main stairs. All yours, Derek.”

“Thanks, Boyd,” Derek murmurs, setting down the glass of champagne he’s been nursing for over an hour and swiftly walking towards the stairs.

“In three, two,” Boyd starts counting.

An explosion originates from the second floor and gas grenades explode in the lobby. The guests panic and ran towards the exit. Derek sees his target surrounded by his bodyguards. In one swift movement, he takes out a gun planted in one of those gaudy large ceramic vases holding plastic plants.

He hits them all right in the head and no one even sees him.

He walks out the building using one of the lesser known fire exits and promptly meets up with a blonde girl two streets down. They ride a blue SUV and drive further from the scene, taking the role of innocent cousins as a backstory just in case of emergency.

+

Hey Derek :)

So I had to head out early, but last night was amazing.

If you see me again don’t be a stranger, drop a ‘hello’ or something

I didn’t want to pressure you about that breakfast you owe me, so I’m not leaving my number here.

See ya whenever :*

\- Stiles

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's word count: 825  
> Next chapter's word count: ~3352 (and I haven't written anything beyond that.)


	4. The Kill Order - Part 1.4 (end of first part)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek and Stiles meet each other again. They go on a date.  
> Scott is a good friend, but he says stupid stuff. Good thing Allison stuck with him.  
> Plot (sort of) creeps in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohgawd, when I first put the story up I was praying for at least fifty people to read it. Grateful for y'all.

Stiles is hunched over his laptop inside a lesser known café a couple of blocks away from the university. It’s a Wednesday so, all his classes ended precisely at three in the afternoon. Visiting the shop on Wednesdays was a routine that the baristas knew how he took his coffee and he doesn’t even need to go up the counter to make an order. He comes in at quarter before four every single time anyway and there was never a rush hour though Blue View has quite the followers ranging from hipster wannabes, hipsters, students, old people, professors, and people like Stiles.

There’s also a two-sitter in the farthest nook that he occupies every time. Maybe it was luck that no one ever really chose to sit there, preferring the couches and group tables by the windows. Either way, on Wednesday afternoons, there seems to be an invisible sign that makes it unofficially Stiles’s.

So Stiles was there, busy typing furiously on his device, wearing a flannel over his Coldplay shirt and sporting his nerd glasses. There were dark bags under his eyes, his hair was a mess, (Thankfully, he didn’t have to lecture that day since it was lab work Wednesday.) and his eyebrows keep scrunching as he chewed furiously on his lower lip. He hasn’t even taken a sip of his coffee, a testament of how out of it he was.

He lets out a short sigh of relief when he gets a confirmation in one of the codes he was trying to override. He now has access to Alpha Company funds. Danny had given him an in but refused to go further. Stiles understood him. This was technically a criminal act, but Stiles like to think that he’d be doing a Robin Hood. Yes, he would be, in a way, stealing their money, but it’s not like he’s actually going to use it for himself. He figures it’d be easy to make a few anonymous donations to small charities here and there – small enough donations that won’t warrant any suspicion from any one, at all, because he’d be dead even before he realizes they’ve caught him if that were to be the case.

He removes his glasses and sets in on the table. It wasn’t until he was reaching for his cup that he realized that someone sat across him.

“Oh my god.”

Derek, the guy he slept with around two weeks ago, was staring at him. He even had the gall to smirk, his eyebrows highlighting his amused expression, as Stiles flailed after drawing back his hands from his coffee. His leather jacket was nowhere in sight, instead, he wore a green Henley shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“So, about the breakfast I owe you. I was thinking of Saturday actually,” he says, eyes never leaving Stiles.

He opens his mouth to form a response but ends up closing it just as soon, because _seriously_ is this dude for real?

“Wait, you’re Stiles, right?” Stiles nods. “Oh good, I was fairly sure it was you. So anyway breakfast on Saturday?” Stiles continues to stare at Derek, mouth now fully open in disbelief. “Okay, I’m hoping that you just didn’t expect to see me here and not that you’ve completely forgotten who I am. Looking like a total creeper was not the plan today. So ah—” he clears his throat “—my name’s Derek and a couple of nights ago we—”

“I _know_! I know you, dude—”Derek raises an eyebrow at the word, “—Derek. Whatever. Not so easy to forget when I had to sit through lunch with my friends with a sore ass.” Derek’s grin just gets wider at Stiles’s confession which made his cheeks burn with embarrassment.

“So breakfast?” Derek asks.

Still dumbfounded, Stiles agrees, “Yeah, sure. Breakfast.”

“Give me your phone.” Derek extends his hands, palm up.

“Why?” Finally, Stiles grabs his coffee and downs half of it one go.

“You never gave me your number. Breakfast, remember? I need to know where to pick you up.”

“ _Pfshh_. You don’t need to pick me up. Just tell me where we’ll eat and we’d meet there.” Stiles says while fixing his laptop into his bag. He refuses to acknowledge the small frown that formed on Derek’s face.

“Alright, fine. 9 AM at the Pancake place on the 4th. Sounds good?” Derek sounded resigned as he rattled of the plan.

Stiles hums pleased. “Are you kidding me? That’s perfect, dude.” He gives Derek a real big smile before standing. “So, is that it? A date, then.” He says turning to leave.

“Yeah.”

Derek also stands and follows him outside. His blue Jeep was still on campus, so he was heading opposite of Derek. They bid their goodbye and waited for Saturday.

+

Allison loves Stiles like her own brother and there was no doubt that she was irrevocably in love with Scott, but sometimes they could both be idiots. And sometimes she wonders how Stiles managed to convince Scott to ask her out, because, in all honesty, if Scott hadn’t asked her out the day he did, she would’ve asked him herself instead. Hey, the girl knows what she wants.

Watching them from the kitchen window talking about Stiles’s possible love life (which was currently non-existent by the way) was exhausting. Of course, Allison knows what they’re talking about. Scott was never able to keep these sorts of things to himself, not when they were dating and especially not now that they were married. She knows this was a boys’ night out (boys’ night out = a few cans of beer, unhealthy food, and Xbox—even when Allison wasn’t pregnant, but on occasions they have semi-serious talks like this) but at the rate they were going, Stiles’s spark for romance wouldn’t even last the Saturday morning.

“Oh my god, Scott, you don’t understand, this is the guy who gave me the most amazing sex of my life, so far—”

“Whoah, TMI.”

“—and he’s fucking gorgeous, like, I’d lick him all over again given the chance, and he’s asking me out for breakfast.”

“So? Breakfast’s good. It’s not like he asked you out on a date.”

“Then why would he ask me out for breakfast if it wasn’t a date, dumbass?”

“Well, maybe Derek doesn’t like going back on his word. I mean, dude, you said he wears leather jackets. It might just be one of those weird things about a certain person. Maybe for him, he does owe you a breakfast. You never know. He might do it for all his uh.. you know…”

Stiles visibly deflates at Scott’s words. Allison was so close to hitting her husband with a frying pan over his head.

“You’re right. It’s not like he actually _likes_ me. We don’t even know each other. For all I know, he’s a mass murdering psychopath.”

Scott nods and Allison has had it. These boys, how they survive with just each other, would forever amaze her.

“Oh, hey Allison,” Stiles greets as he noticed her walking to them.

“Scott, aren’t you forgetting something inside?” She says to her husband. Scott gets a confused look on his face.

“Uh, I don’t think—” Allison raises an eyebrow and suddenly Scott is very aware of what his wife wanted “—oh right! Yeah. Something.” He nods to Stiles who was then sporting a knowing grin before scurrying to their house.

“So, you like this guy? Derek?” Allison starts. Stiles should’ve have been used to Allison’s bluntness, but those big hazel eyes and angelic face gets to him every time.

“Maybe,” he replies, his hands moving to scratch the back of his head.

It might as well be a yes, Allison thinks, especially going by her friend’s flustered look.

“I’m not really sure, y’know. Not right now. But I really think I could.”

Allison nods and without saying anything else, Stiles spills everything. Stiles thinks of it as her own superpower. Scott’s a great friend, but when it comes to matters of the heart, he’s pretty much shit. Lydia, on the other hand, is a cold, heartless bitch when it comes to emotions. Her motto goes like this: if you’re not brave enough to get what you want, you don’t deserve it. It’s as fierce as her own personality. She’ll even quote Brokeback Mountain for Stiles: “If you can’t fix it, you’ve gotta live with it.” No wonder she and Jackson fit together perfectly. Jackson would just throw a fist, smile, and ask if he’s knocked sense into him. And Danny is just as underdeveloped as Stiles when it comes to feelings (hence the strings of failed relationships.) So really, there is Allison and only Allison for problem like this. Everyone in his circle is emotionally stunted. Maybe that’s why they’ve stuck together for so long.

Allison listens and doesn’t interrupt. Stiles have started his notorious flailing as he tried to justify why he can’t possibly have something more than sex with the Derek McHottie. But at the same time, oh my god, Allison, I slept soundly with the guy beside me—curled around me even. You understand that, right? Scott must have told you about it. He’s _Scott_. He worships you and he feels like you need to know absolutely everything about him and by some extension me! I haven’t slept—literally—beside anyone since my Mom died. Even drunk. It’s like my body just knows when I’m not alone in bed and it doesn’t like it. Then he comes along, we have great sex, he invites me to stay over, and I do, and I actually fall asleep. No pretending shenanigans needed. And the worst part is it was one of the best sleep I’ve ever have for god knows how long!

“Stiles,” Allison says after a while of silence, “here’s what I think. You like him enough right now—” Stiles starts to open his mouth to protest “—No, listen. It’s my turn. You like him enough to have said yes to breakfast. And you can’t tell me you were caught off-guard. You’re Stiles. Your fist impulse is to say ‘no’, but you said ‘yes’ to him. So what you’re gonna do is go to that thing. Dress nicely. Make the best out of it. Get to know Derek better, because here’s another thought, if he didn’t like you well enough, why would he invite you?”

“But he owes me food.”

“He told you that after sex. Who means what they say after sex?”

“Is that why you didn’t believe Scott when he first proposed—” an indignant squawk comes from inside the house and Scott retorts loudly,

“Hey! You thought that was a great idea!”

“Dude! I’ve never had a proper relationship. How was I supposed to know that?”

Allison sighs defeated. Her kid is going to grow up around these boys.

+

Derek was already sitting by the windows when Stiles comes in five minutes past nine. The guy was flicking through his phone but immediately looked up as a small bell dings after the glass door opened. His face brightened and he smiled lazily at Stiles.

Stiles parks two blocks away. He’s fifteen minutes early and there was no way he’s going in there to wait for Derek. There was no way he’d risk appearing too eager when in truth he wasn’t _that_ overexcited. Stiles didn’t wake up an hour earlier than usual to pick something decent to wear, spending over thirty minutes mulling over the lack of variance in his closet only to end up in his usual get up. Stiles doesn’t do that. _Nope._ Well, Stiles usually doesn’t do that, but exceptions could be made. Why the hell not?

A blonde woman with a bob cut and poorly done eye make-up ( _Gurl_ , are you sure you used the same palette for both eyes?) appears with two sets of menu. Stiles almost felt sorry for her. Almost because she started to bend lower and lower and practically tried to hog Derek’s line of sight. The first few buttons of her uniform was undone. By then, Stiles was just keeping himself from snarking at her. Yes, hey, why don’t you bend lower? I’m not sure Derek got a good glimpse of your padded bra the first time.

They both order the breakfast special and start talking amiably, completely ignoring the fiasco with the waitress. They talk first about the weather, because Stiles, as much as a talkative creature he is, didn’t know how to start a conversation properly on normal days, and faced with an attractive specimen who, mind you, asked him out on a not-date was certainly not making things any easier. Derek—thank God and all his singing angels—just looked at him with an eyebrow raised and an amused smiled gracing his lips and rolled with it. After getting into a rhythm, their conversation became much more comfortable. They stopped talking about insubstantial things and started digging information about each other.

“… so sometimes I just end up walking to the campus. It just isn’t worth enduring surprise heavy traffics in the morning, ya know? And Scott doesn’t mind picking me and Allison, his wife, up in the afternoons anyway.”

“So you teach in freshmen mostly? I remember being one and I feel sorry for you.”

“Makes both of us. But there are a few—two or three—decent students once in a while. Them I don’t mind much. Plus, human interaction is a nice change from my part time job in a law firm. I can go three straight days on a research binge without seeing anyone. My boss had to lock me out of the office to get me to stop. Good times. So hey, we’ve talked enough about me. What about you? What do you do?”

“I do finances for a construction company downtown.”

The blonde waitress comes to check on them for the third time in half an hour. Her blatant flirting had even started to make Derek less amiable to her and he had started giving her short, clip answers to her useless questions. This time though, Stiles had had enough and when she stood by their table, he put his hand atop of Derek’s and gave a light squeeze.

“Do you need anything else?” She asked, still ignoring Stiles.

“No, in fact, we were just leaving.” Stiles said standing up and effectively pulling Derek with him. Stiles felt her glare at the back of his head and feeling equally as mean, he turned to her just as he and Derek reached the door, smirked, and dragged Derek by the back of his head to give her a show. The kiss was all lips at first. Derek’s surprise was evident, but he quickly returned the kiss with just as much fervor, parting his lips and letting Stiles steer them. Then there were hoots and catcalls from the other patrons as they parted and the blonde flirty girl stood shell shock on her spot, clenched fists, cheeks red, and eyebrows furrowed indignantly.

It didn’t take long for Stiles to lose his composure. Their hands were still clasped when Stiles realized the weight of his actions. When he started saying a litany of _oh my god_ s and string of harmless curses, Derek only stared at him with the same amused expression (and eyebrow expression) he had had back at the coffee shop. Stiles was in the middle of saying how sorry he was for being an inappropriate jerk and he didn’t mean to kiss him—well, not like he didn’t want to kiss Derek, but that was out of the blue and done out of spite and then Derek kissed him. First, to shut him up. When Stiles stood dumbfounded with his mouth hanging open, Derek kissed him again. This time because they both wanted it.

Later, they are on the same bed in Derek’s apartment, both naked as the day they were born, satisfied and worn out from previous activities.

“You know, you didn’t have to take me out to get into my pants again, or to have me in yours,” Stiles says cheekily as he traced figures on Derek’s arm wrapped around him. He felt the rumble of Derek’s chest on his back and he can’t help but let out his own grin.

+

It happens for several more times. They’d meet on a weekend or a Friday. Sometimes they went straight to Derek’s then have food (mostly pizzas or Chinese take-outs) delivered and other times they go for a movie or for meals in various places.

They started texting sometime after the third week. At first, Stiles just wanted to vent out about his classes and his students. Derek would reply in with a word or two. There were three or four messages exchanged in a day. But as their meetings grew more frequent, the amount of messages also increased.

It was mostly Stiles who starts the conversations and Stiles who sends Derek funny pictures or video links to random shit he finds on the internet. But lately, Derek’s reply had started to progress too. If lucky, Stiles even receives a picture or video in return.

Derek disappears for weeks some months. He never forgets to tell Stiles. He says work and Stiles never questions him. It wasn’t that bad. In fact, Stiles likes the days following Derek’s returns. They don’t leave the bed for the whole weekend.

During this period, Stiles doesn’t bother texting or calling him. He wasn’t going to be an overly-attached boyfriend, because in the first place, they weren’t boyfriends. They weren’t _not_ anything. They were fuckbuddies who sometimes go on dates. Sure, Derek had sometimes picked him up from work and Stiles sometimes does Derek’s laundry and dishes when he comes over and finds most things in the apartment a mess. (“I’m not a slob. I’m just busy!” “Yeah, right.”) Stiles has never actually entered Derek’s room, but the guest room they always use already has some of his things. He doesn’t deliberately leave them there. Stiles just forgets, especially when he stays over complete with his overnight bag, and in the morning he hurries, because Lydia was going to kill him if he was late for lunch _again_. Derek, that cruel man, just watches him from the bed as he panicked around like a headless chicken. When he comes back a few weeks later, he sees his shirt and pants neatly folded inside the closet beside Derek’s sleepwear.

While Stiles, no doubt, appreciates the days after Derek’s return, he doesn’t mind the days when Derek is away. With Derek gone for a few days, Stiles actually has time to think about _them_. And how there was never supposed to be a ‘ _them’_ in the first place. There’s Stiles. There’s Derek. And there’s convenient sex. And it was really convenient considering Stiles is a horny bastard despite being out of his teenage years for quite a while and he doesn’t have time to find a partner while trying to give his father’s demise justice.

There is no doubt that if John Stilinski were able to talk to his son, Stiles would be getting an earful. Oh, he’d probably even be disappointed and would try to play the guilt card, muttering about how he’d raised a kid better than someone who was currently trying to extract revenge (by trying to destroy a powerful company—an empire—from the inside out without doing any heavy lifting nonetheless. Thank you, Technology!) But hey, let’s be real here. He wouldn’t exactly be surprised. He was Stiles’s father. He knew that while Stiles was a good kid, he wasn’t a saint.

Just over a year ago, Detective John Stilinski, took a case which, as far as Stiles was aware, involved an old security personnel of the Alpha group of companies. Three months late, said person went missing. And John Stilinski, being the man he was, didn’t let the case go cold. Unfortunately, months later found him gutted in a ditch two towns over.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And please don't kill me. I've written about a hundred words for the next part xD. Update same day next week (hopefully mehehe.)


	5. The Kill Order - Part 2.1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More human interaction! Stiles gets sick. Derek and Isaac meets Stiles's friends, because Lydia ordered it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DEDICATED TO ALL THE PEOPLE   
> WHO SAID THEY COULDN'T WAIT   
> TO READ MORE.   
> YOU GUYS SERIOUSLY KEEP ME GOING. 
> 
> 1\. The more exciting stuff happens in the next chapter. (I swear.)  
> 2\. I need more time to write cos classes has started again, so expect the next one in ten days.  
> 3\. THANK YOU FOR THE KUDOS/COMMENTS! I never tire of seeing them :)

Stiles was pretty sure it was supposed to be a one-time thing. Then he didn’t mind it turning into casual fucks. You know, the whole friends with benefits shebang except the use of ‘friends’ in their case was laughable considering he virtually knew nothing about Derek. Nothing substantial, at least.

He knows Derek is great in bed. Stiles absolutely loves it when Derek rides him. Derek likes being the instigator of sex, but doesn’t mind Stiles jumping him from time to time. He’s not much a talker in bed, but _damn_ could he talk dirty. Stiles swears he could come just from listening to Derek’s filthy words.

He knows Derek has at least one sister he talks to every now and then and considering that he’s only ever heard him talk to her at ungodly hours of the morning, Stiles thinks the said sister lives very, very far. But normally, family is a no-touch subject to them. He’s never seen a picture of Derek’s family in the apartment—actually, there was nothing remotely homely about it. If Derek decided to live one day with just the clothes on his back, it wouldn’t matter, because there still won’t be any trace of him there.

Maybe Derek’s bedroom is different, Stiles thinks.

Derek has been to Stiles’s apartment once and the latter was happy that Derek never mentioned and never showed any discomfort in the disparity between their places. Stiles lived in a low-class apartment building with an elevator that last worked probably two decades ago, annoying neighbors with kids who loved to piss Stiles off in the early mornings and late nights and basically _all the fucking time_ with their incessant crying. Hot water was available never. The light in the hallway worked sometimes. The security guard the residents hire whom they collectively pay was asleep half of the time, because apparently most of the tenants were piss poor, but safety shouldn’t be taken lightly. _Yeaaah_ , as if, but hey, better than nothing. Basically, it was every reason why none of his friends mind having him over. Even Jackson.

There was a heavy weight on his chest. He can’t breathe through his nose. He feels like he’s been stuck in the ninth circle of hell. He was under four (six?) layers of clothing when the knocking came. Scott has a copy of his key like he had a duplicate of their house’s key. Lydia had one too even if Stiles doesn’t remember ever giving her one, but she’s Lydia anyway. Jackson wouldn’t come near his rat hole and Danny would’ve called first before trying to visit. Also, he was pretty sure he was too sick to order pizza or any take-out for that matter.

So there was knocking and Stiles wasn’t sure he could get up from his bed. Scott had already come earlier that day to bring him soup and to force meds down his throat, because Stiles sometimes resting isn’t enough and we both know you should have a professional; look at you.

He hasn’t seen Derek for a week then. Stiles sent him a message about a day ago saying he was sick: _duuude im dying. Ok. not rly. sick as hell tho. cant m8k it 2nyt._ And proceeded to burrow himself under his covers. The A/C was very much like his mouth-to-brain filter, meaning it has never worked before and therefore there was no reason for it to work now.

For a moment he thinks whoever had been knocking had given up and gone away. It was a relief. Then his phone started ringing and he knew it was Derek because he had a different ringtone for the different people in his contacts list. He let out a little groan as he felt around for it. The little device was somewhere in his bed, hiding under his covers or was it the pillows. Stiles didn’t bother opening his eyes when he clicked the answer button.

“Stiles,” Derek says, his voice inquisitive. Stiles tried to say his name, but a sound resembling a dying walrus came out instead. He faintly hears the man curse before the line goes dead. When he peeks, a black screen greets him. _Ugh._ Hadn’t he charged his phone last night? Or was that two nights ago? _UGH._ Whatever. He lets out another dying groan and lets the mobile drop from his hand. Stiles was out cold within a minute.

He doesn’t hear click of the door and footfalls.

In the morning, his sweat stained pajamas would have been changed. A bowl of soup would be placed on his bedside along with his pill and a glass of cold water. Stiles would find more soup stored in the microwave. His phone would be fully charged, resting beside his pillow. But Stiles wouldn’t wake up until late night of the next day. He wouldn’t remember anything from the day before and would send Scott another text saying thanks.

+

Derek says he’d be gone for three weeks. They were in his bed again. Framed glasses similar to Stiles’s were perched atop the bridge of his nose and he’s reading a paperback with one hand while Stiles used his other limb as a pillow as the younger man browsed his phone. Stiles’s finger-tapping falters a bit and for a moment; he feels his heart skip a beat.

“Oh, have fun working. Bring me back something would ya?” He says nonchalantly. Derek’s arm around him tightens.

“Yeah.”

Stiles tries not to think about it much as he continued surfing the news for anything regarding the Alpha Company. There weren’t anything remotely scandalous so far. In fact, the latest news was about Deucalion visiting a children’s ward for the terminally ill in some off-coast island. He didn’t plan on reading it until he saw the name of the hospital, Mountainside Memorial Hospital. The hospital wouldn’t have been familiar if he hadn’t recognized the logo. It was the same pink logo that made him choose the hospital as one of the recipients of the money he’d been taking out from the said company’s fund. And now that he thought about it, it was the first place he had picked.

He tries to read through the entire article but his mind was reeling and the words were a jumbled mess in his sight. There were pictures of Deucalion reading to the kids, stooping down to the level of a toddler, holding out a small ball.

Coincidence. That must be it. They couldn’t have known. It’s too early for them to trace me. Shit. What did I do? Fuck. What do I do? Oh god, this must be a warning. Stupid idiot. Gonna get killed.

They were going after him. There’s no doubt they were going after him. They’re going to kill him. Hell, he’d be lucky if he could get off that easy. He’d take swift death over getting tortured to death any day. Maybe it would even be like in the movies. Stiles would be propositioned first. He’s good with computers. Maybe they were looking for people to work for them. To deal with the less than legal shit they do. Stiles already knew, they only had to convince him or fuck, they could just point a gun at a puppy and threaten the poor guy to get Stiles to yield. (And it would have been the first time he sees that puppy too.) So basically, they couldn’t let them get him alive which totally sucks because he was only one man and he was completely unwilling to drag any of his friends down with him. They were going after him and they were sure to get him. It’s only a question of time. Maybe he should write his last will, pull out bank loans to get away from here, Scotty deserved to know. Not the whole story, the basics at the very least. Hey, maybe even Jackson nee—

“Stiles,” Derek calls out effectively cutting Stiles’s train of thought, “you’re shaking.” He puts down his glasses and book and starts tracing the other man’s lips with his thumb. It was a light gentle motion that had Stiles shivering for another reason. “They’re bleeding.” He holds Stiles closer and lifts his free hand to touch Stiles’s red swollen lips from the biting he’d unconsciously done. Derek’s eyebrows were doing that thing again where it was the one asking the unspoken question.

“I’m fine. Just a little cold is all,” Stiles answers as he puts his phone away. He grins when he turns back to Derek, throws a leg over the man and proceeds to straddle him. “Ya know, if you’re gonna be gone for three weeks, I better take what I could get right now,” he adds as he starts to pepper kisses down Derek’s chest.

Still a little bit loose from their previous coupling, Stiles guides Derek into him, reveling at the sensuous burn. Derek grips his waist stopping him from harsh pace he was about to set.

He wants to hurt. He wants to come feeling sore all over. Wants to forget Deucalion, the Alpha business, his father’s death, and how completely and utterly alone he feels. It was unfair—he knows, fuck _,_ he _knows_ —to use Derek this way. But he needed it so much at that moment that he didn’t care about anything else at all. Derek didn’t let him hurt himself, but he let Stiles hold the reign. If he knew what Stiles was doing, Stiles didn’t care. Of course, if he knew, if he sensed it (because Derek was a scarily perceptive person, Stiles had learned) and doesn’t call Stiles back after three weeks, Stiles wouldn’t be surprised anymore.

Stiles is good with that, fucking up. He isn’t genuinely nice like Scott. Stiles is selfish. He never tried to be anything but. Even this whole revenge ordeal he has on going was purely done on selfish whim. What he wants, for Deucalion to fall, it wasn’t all that bad a cause, but it wasn’t like he’s doing this to help all the little people Deucalion and his team are victimizing. He just wants to make them feel what he felt when he lost his Dad. Like the whole world is falling apart at the seams and you’re standing on top of it.

So he rams himself up and down Derek’s member, reveling at the pain-pleasure roughness of his movements. Derek meets his each and every thrust, cock brushing against his sweet spot, sending Stiles’s eyes rolling back. Incoherent moans filled the air as sweat-slicked bodies moved firmly against each other. There were going to be finger-shaped bruises on Stiles’s hips in the morning and Derek’s chest and shoulders would’ve been claimed by Stiles’s bites and they would spend hours lazily making out in the bed, maybe fall asleep again until it was time for parting. Perhaps they’d wake up early enough to cook breakfast together. Then Derek will read the morning paper as Stiles flips the channel to Simpsons reruns. But not tonight. There is none of that sweet gentleness they have managed in the past. Tonight, it was all about their pure, visceral needs.

It was like the first night they shared all-over again except, now they knew each other’s bodies so well that they didn’t have to vocalize anything but their moan and grunts of pleasure.

+

Derek and Isaac meet Lydia and most of Stiles’s friends the next morning.

A phone rings at quarter past ten in the morning and Derek picks it up on impulse entirely missing the fact that one, it wasn’t his phone, and two, it was a tune he was unfamiliar with.

No one ever called him early this morning. Boyd, Erica, and Isaac know to leave him alone before noon during his days off. No one is allowed to bother him, not even the president or not even news from Boyd that he’s supposed to assassinate one. So in reply, he grunted unpleased into the device.

“O, goody, I figured this would happen at some point or another,” a strict female voice says.

If Derek has been anyone else and Stiles hasn’t been as open as he was about his friends, he wouldn’t have put two and two together. With the woman’s unamused tone, it was easy enough to think that Stiles is a lying cheating bastard.

“Lydia?” Derek answers, still as disgruntled as when he first answered.

“Yeah, alright, okay I’ll go straight to the point, wake Stiles up and tell him not to be late for our lunch. He’s been coming in late every time in the last few months and frankly, it’s sickening to see him arrive completely disheveled—bed hair, shirt from the previous day, unbuttoned pants. He’s a full grown man for God’s sake. Also, you should come. Actually, that’s not a request. You’re coming. You can bring a friend or two if you like. Bye, Derek Hale, see you later.” Click.

One thing was for sure, Lydia was just as terrifying as Stiles have said.

He contemplated not going. He could just not tell Stiles. There was a feeling however, that he should not get into the woman’s bad side. Even moreso, Derek wanted to see the people Stiles talks about frequently. They sound like really admirable friends. And if Stiles’s description of Lydia was on-point, he’d say they’re an entertaining bunch to be around.

Derek doesn’t have that many friends. Except his younger sister Cora, (who also happens to be the only family he has left and him, hers) he only has Erica, Boyd, and Isaac. Isaac he could consider friend at the best of times, but they mostly operated only at a level safe enough for it not to interfere with work. He can’t be expected to save Erica when things go south in a mission. And he can’t rely on Erica to have his back. The agency would drop his ass in the second he gets caught and none of those three would bat an eyelash. Isaac might feel a little saddened to change partners after working with Derek for almost a decade and it was more than Derek could ask of him. Erica and Boyd, on the other hand, he thinks, would deny ever seeing him. They’ve been in the business just as long as Derek has been an orphan. They are trained professional used to compartmentalizing emotions. Any trace of fondness he has over him would be gone the moment Derek screws up.

And there’s no point feeling bitter about it, because Derek knows he’s likely to do the same.

They fight about it for a goof fifteen minutes. Stiles doesn’t want Derek to feel obligated to come and he apologizes profusely for Lydia’s holier-than-thou attitude but _that’s how she just is, Derek. It’s nothing personal._ But Derek doesn’t feel obligated. Yes, it was Lydia’s “orders” as she put it, but Derek did genuinely want to meet Stiles’s friend. Stiles was relentless so Derek did what he knew best to shut him up which was to devour his mouth. They have hot shower sex that Stiles’s wouldn’t mind repeating and if that’s how Derek was going to make him say yes when they’re arguing, well, who was he to argue then?

And because he actually did want to leave a good impression on Stiles’s friends, he asks Isaac to come. The guy tends to be an asshole a lot of times, but he at least knows how to behave around normal people. Boyd was better, but he wasn’t going to come, not without Erica and that girl has an affinity with being completely crude at the most inappropriate of times. (But he thinks Stiles would get along with her, they seem to share the same dry humor.)

+

Allison greets them in Whittemore’s porch in some high-end area of the city, and Derek freezes for a second before schooling his expression back. She looks so much like Kate Argent.

“Derek Hale.”

“Allison,” she says, putting her hand forward, “Nice to meet you.”

He wanted to ask if she were an Argent (if she were one of them), but there was no way of asking that would not be weird, so he lets it go this time. He has resources he could use for that.

As expected, Isaac charms the pants off everyone, especially the McCall couple. He and Stiles got along better than Derek thought. Then again, Erica and Stiles have a lot in common and Isaac and Erica surprisingly play well together.

Except for Lydia, no one asked him things too personal and even the scary woman asked nothing about his family. Derek was glad that he didn’t have to use rehearsed answers for the small gathering. The people are pleasing and warm and never pushed too far that he felt no need to hide even the most basic things about himself like how he liked baseball, the movies he’s recently seen, that music he listens to, cars, etc.

They were having a few rounds of beer and Derek offered to get more. Only Allison was left in the kitchen, cutting up apples for the group.

“Argent. Allison Argent,” she says.

Derek almost drops the cans but his training reflexes work and he doesn’t even make a noise.

“Does it ring a bell?” Allison adds, still not facing the man.

Derek keeps his voice steady and acts confused. “Uh, okay, no, not really.”

She turns to him, all pleasant demeanor gone. Hard eyes and tensed jaws met him. “Sorry, I thought you looked like someone I know.” She smiles. It was the complete opposite of the warm welcome she greeted them with.

Derek nods and leaves.

The next one to corner him was Lydia, the Goddess herself.

They were about to leave and he’d forgotten his phone inside. Everyone else was bidding goodbyes in the front porch, except for Lydia who was staying over.

“Derek Hale,” she calls him holding his phone out.

He meets her gaze head on and places hold on the item, he tries to retract it back, but Lydia doesn’t budge.

“I’m quite surprised you and Stiles lasted this long. You’re all his been talking about, you know”—Derek doesn’t say anything—“I know Stiles and I know that he gets attach too easily. I’m not saying that you two should stop doing what you have, but don’t drag Stiles into your business.”

Derek stiffens and Lydia notices the exact moment his grip on the device tightens.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he denies.

“Well, to be honest, I don’t know either. And that’s the problem. There’s nothing about you anywhere and whether you’re the good guy or the bad guy, it doesn’t matter, because it means danger. And trust me, all the people who were here, we don’t take kindly to Stiles getting dragged down with you. So be smart about that. We know people.” She smiles predatorily before letting go of Derek’s phone and turning away with the click of her heels back into Jackson’s bedroom.

Derek should be wary of them. Derek should be planning on breaking his and Stiles’s arrangement. But at that moment all he could think of was how lucky Stiles was. He’s not envious. In fact, he’s glad that there are people to pull Stiles back from him, because what Lydia said was true. He was dangerous. What he does is dangerous. He _is_ danger to Stiles.

But there was no time for that now. He was leaving in the morning. There was work to do. He still has three weeks to think on it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> dropping comments may or may not help in my writing the next part *happyfacewithpuppyeyes*


End file.
